


as i hope (And As I Fall)

by GwiYeoWeo



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Gen, Songfic, and fuck bahamut he can eat my entire ass, aulea and cid and clarus get like 5 words, but i love regis ok, is this a dadfic?? idk, obvious chapter 1 spoilers, one sentence reference to endgame spoilers, regis tried his best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 07:37:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17524559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo
Summary: Its taking the hope that i’ve foundAnd given me nothing backBut he would gladly offer up his own heart to keep Noctis’ beating.





	as i hope (And As I Fall)

**Author's Note:**

> I love Regis ok. So maybe things would have worked out differently if he had confessed to his son about the whole prophecy stuff, but.. I still love him ok. And i wish we had more of him in the game.
> 
> No beta we die like... Regis. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**demanding my mind be set free from wanting the things i don’t need**

Regis watches on, hidden away atop his towering castle. He watches on, his heart cracking and shattering in the hands of the child sleeping in his arms. He watches on, until he no longer can, when the tears blur his vision and he fights to keep his chest from heaving lest he wake his precious son, innocent and wholly undeserving of his gods-given fate.

Of all the authority and dominion given by the crown and the limitless power gifted by the Crystal, he is so utterly

Powerless.

He tried, _gods, he tried_. He tried to separate his son from the Chosen, tried to tell himself that this was the weight of the world. It was one life, one fragile life. Regis could part with that, couldn't he? He's a king, he knows how to calculate and value lives against others, make sacrifices for the better good. It’s simple. One small child to save the world. A drop of water in the ocean. It’s simple. Simple, simple, simple.

But he couldn't. And never in his life was Regis more ashamed and furious at himself, for even thinking he could give the life of his son so easily. He was a father before he was a king. And damn the gods if they tried to rob him of that.

He had wanted to break himself away, to tell himself he could find the resolve to see Noctis as the gods had decreed — a sacrificial lamb to save all of humanity.

But now, with carrying his heart of hearts against his chest, he wants nothing more than to give the love his son so deserved. To let him grow and explore, laugh and love and experience everything there was to offer.

To let him live without the weight of the gods and the pleas of the world, without death following at his heels.

So he'd give his son at least that much, during the short time he had. The pain of knowledge is a vice wrapped round his heart, making it slowly bleed against the sharp edges of its cage. But he would gladly offer up his own heart to keep Noctis’ beating. (And only if he could; he would cry in gratitude if given the chance.)

So he'll suffer instead, let it fester inside him so his son can have what little happiness he could give.

 

 **  
** **my pride is hiding its lies behind all the dreams living inside**

Watching his son grow never fails to fill his chest with fatherly pride. He has each little memorabilia and plaque decorating his private office, little trophies sitting along a shelf or knick knacks carefully placed inside a glass cabinet. Where once important documents were laminated and framed on the wall, there hanged a large cork board with scraps of drawings and crooked hand paintings proudly thumbtacked.

Regis leans back in his desk, rubbing his tired eyes that had grown dry from all the documents requiring his attention. Proposals for new city roads, construction for government buildings, budget cuts from various departments to fund their military, land expansions for the refugees. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Feeling the oncoming of a migraine, he looks away from the stack of papers and over to a corner of his desk. He sees the framed photo of him and his old entourage in their younger, wilder days, free of the burdens and stations that separate them now.

Beside the photo is a poor misshapen mug, its handle uneven and crooked, the cracked mouth threatening to cut the lips of whoever dared to drink from it. And on that uneven ceramic surface, written in poor cursive that was undeniably Noctis’, “ _#1 king of lucis.”_

He looks at it fondly, and the warmth it fills him with replaces the exhaustion from pouring over hundreds of documents.

There’s a knock on the door, suddenly, a rhythm too playful for it to be any advisor or guard. Two young voices mumble behind the door, one tinged with worry while the other more free and merry.

A heart-melting giggle, then “ _Noct, Noct!_ ”

Regis barely stifles his own chuckle. “Who is it?” he calls out, already making to stand from his desk. Before he can make it halfway to the door, it cracks open and a face peeks in, cheeks tinged with pink and a smile too innocent for this world.

“I already said it! It’s me, Noct!” the child laughs, pushing the door farther this time.

“And indeed you did. Do forgive your silly father, son.” Regis opens an arm out, to which Noctis enthusiastically runs into. The small thing still doesn’t reach his hips, so the child chooses to wrap his arms around his father’s leg instead. Something white catches his eye, but Regis smiles and gently presses a hand to the soft bundle of hair.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. His Highness insisted on seeing you,” says the quiet voice still standing by the door. Ignis was fidgeting with his glasses, adjusting them on his nose in a gesture of nervousness.

“No, it’s quite alright. I was thinking it time for a short break, anyhow.” Regis hopes his smile would reassure the young retainer that it really was perfectly alright, and the boy seems to at least lose some tension that tightened his shoulders.

A tugging at his pants demands Regis’ attention once more. This time, Regis kneels on one knee and brings himself to Noctis’ eye level. “Yes, Noctis?”

“I drew another picture for your wall. Can I put it up?” Noctis beams, one hand holding the paper and the other pointing at the wall, where his other drawings and art projects hung.

“And where else would it go? Come.” Regis scoops up his son, the boy still small and dainty in his arms. He carries him to the wall, and Noctis leans out to pluck out one of the free thumbtacks stuck into a corner of the cork. His little blue eyes scan for free space, no doubt trying to pick out a good spot to pin his latest masterpiece. After a few seconds of deliberation, he thumbtacks his artwork in between a crayon drawing of Carbuncle and a finger painting of Shiva (who, in this particular instance, was _well endowed_ despite her stick-like figure). Regis and Noctis both smile in admiration of the latest addition.

Until realization and recognition dawns on him, cruel like a cold sharp dagger.

He breathes in, out. Once more, for good measure. And with a steady voice, he says, “Noctis, do tell me about your picture.” But he already knows, and it fills him with dread. What he once treasured turned to betray him, and he can’t help the bitterness that creeps up his chest.

And Noctis, oh sweet Noctis, simply offers his dazzling smile, unaware of the future that pains his father so. “Well, it’s you, me,” he explains, pointing to their respective drawn figures. His little finger moves to the middle. “And the Crystal.”

 

  
  
**delusion is weighing me down it’s taking the hope that i’ve found**

It's a mistake. It's always a mistake. When he sees his son smile, that bright smile full of life and vigor, he foolishly hopes that his son will carry it throughout his life, surrounded by his closest friends, until his hairs turn a regal gray as he rules upon his throne. Regis lets himself imagine his small boy as King, ruling for decades with his gentle hand and beloved by all of Eos. He sees, sometimes, grandchildren even. A pair, one girl and one boy, bounding through the Citadel's garden and filling the air with sweet laughter.

And always, he realizes it's a mistake when he feels the thrum of magic under his skin. When he looks out toward the gates and sees the statues of the Lucii stare back at him, their stony visage a cursed and heart-rending reminder of reality. He sees the throne, and he sees not the warm smile of his son, but a cold lifeless body pinned to his deathbed, a black sword struck clean into his chest.

And always, he cries. And he curses the gods for letting him hope, only to take it away. ****

**  
** **so now i’m on my tip toes trying to see past my ego**

It's never easy. It’s the weight that comes with the crown, Regis knows, but he doesn't have to like it. He knew the goal but not the journey. Never did he think it would happen so soon, and not in the form of Niflheim.

But he knows. He’s lived under his father's reign, and he's lived through his own. He knows deceit and deception, especially when it shows itself so blatant. Niflheim must think him a fool for sending such terms. They're too demanding, too greedy, and their conditions are more like terms of surrender than a proposal of peace. Lucis would stand to lose so much more than they would gain if he accepted this treaty. Willingly hand over their outlying lands? Let Niflheim keep their cold iron claws on Galahd? On Tenebrae? Don’t make him laugh. He would _never._ No king in his right mind would accept.

Which meant this is a trap. A trap Regis would have to walk into.

He thought himself as a rather humble man, but kings had to have some sense of pride in them. They had to show determination and confidence, strong will and certainty. The King of Insomnia refused to bend his knee and humbly let the enemy waltz in through his front door.

But there was Regis the Father, who would rather fall to his knees and offer his own life than have Noctis harmed. He would steal his son away in the night and carry him to the farthest and deepest reaches of the world, fight both men and daemon alike with his bare hands, hell, he would blaspheme his own gods (if he hadn't already) and bear the shame of a heretical king — anything and everything if his son could just. Live.

But he’s only a man, under the thumb of higher powers.

But he's only a man, with a duty to his people, a duty to the gods, and a duty to his son. And it tears his heart apart, knowing he would have to forfeit all but one.

Worse still, he knows this is all but a stepping stone in the grand scheme of the universe. The gods had cast the die, and he could feel the fate of the world put into motion. And Noctis would only have more pain and fire to walk through, more trials and tribulations to weather. There was supposed to be more time, he laments. His son still had so many more years to live for.

 

 

**reaching for something more than this feeling of being important**

Regis would just have to play his cards right and grant Noctis what little opening he could give. Pride was something he could easily give up.

So he accepts the terms, offers the invitation to Insomnia (only because he knows Gralea won't open its gates to them), ignores the bellowing voice of his father cursing him for his weakness. _‘You’re a king, you bend knee to no one!’_ he imagines the voice saying. But this is all for something more, far more important than the dignity of one king.

It’s for the love of his son. And if it’s to save humanity as well, it comes as an afterthought.

 

 **  
** **leaving my heart behind its bleeding but still my pride is screaming**

“Take your leave, and go in the grace of the gods.”

He grips the arms of his throne, watching Noctis and his royal retinue bow their farewells. Regis keeps his face passive, swallows down the grief that threatens to spill from his lips, his eyes. He’s done this before, perfected it to an art. He knows how to craft a mask for each and every occasion, in front of dignitaries or the media. Even in front of Noctis. There’s no reason to falter now.

So he watches until they disappear from his view, watches his heart walk away with his son.

 

 **  
** **will I always know this divide living host to this war inside**

And his resolve crumbles.

He thought he was prepared for this. He had years and years to plan and prepare for this moment, for the day he would last see his son. But something in him broke, his mask cracked, and before he realized it, he was trying his damndest to climb down the stairs, ignoring the protests of his failing body.

Noctis turns at his name, looking irritated at the sudden hold-up. Regis doesn’t apologize, though he feels he should but for an entirely different reason that Noctis could never fathom. Instead, “I fear I have left too much unsaid.”

 _‘Understatement of the decade, Regis_ , _’_ he thinks to himself. He wants to say so much more, wants to so desperately hold onto his son and hide him away from a world that was just too cruel. And he can only hope that whatever’s left of his facade will be enough to hide the despair and torment that claws at his heart. He keeps talking only to keep his tears from showing.

Regis extends a hand and gently squeezes Noctis’ shoulder. In years past, he would have gathered up a laughing child and wrap him in a tight, warm hug. But now, it’s only a distant memory.

“Walk tall, my son.”

A memory he’ll take with him to the grave.

 

 **  
** **take this ghost of me**

He feels his magic give and his body fail. The barrier shatters, and something in his chest snaps. He thinks of Aulea, her radiant smile and fierce but loving eyes, he thinks of his friends and comrades and the fallout with Cid, and Clarus’ dead body behind him. And Noctis. He prays his death will be the last one Noctis grieves for.

 

**with the tide to die**

He'll carry the weight of the crown, even as it kills him, as his body falls and cold seeps in his old, tired bones. He'll do it not for duty, not even for the damn gods, but for

 

**and release my heart**

_Noctis_

 

**to come alive**

He stands before his son, sword in hand.

And plunges.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for suffering with me
> 
> Song: [half•alive - tip toes. ](https://youtu.be/XjJ72vHad1k)


End file.
